


Sangoflinoj

by dweeblet



Series: Vamparapines [2]
Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Hypnotism, M/M, Misunderstandings, Short One Shot, Vampire!Dipper, Vampires, accidental murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: A given, without a doubt, love would be easy and pure and finally ease the soft ache of loneliness that sat beneath his lungs. He would live happily ever after, of course.





	Sangoflinoj

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to Nearly Almost Dead But Not Quite!! (some old work I never posted)

He was the kind of person, despite what he thought, who never really knew what love was. Buoyed by his sister’s boundless optimism, images in books and fairytales, in the back of his pragmatic brain Dipper always figured that love was something magical, something that defied science and logic and any rules that bound people to common sense and bodily harm. 

 

It would cause him to become something better and bigger than himself, something beautiful. A given, without a doubt, love would be easy and pure and finally ease the soft ache of loneliness that sat beneath his lungs. He would live happily ever after, of course.

 

The early-morning air is cool and damp. Norman bolts from the house, stumbling against the doorframe as he wrenches his arm away from Dipper’s firm grip. He sprints on long legs over the dying grass and trips into the woods, impelled by a deep-seeded, primal instinct to run, run faster, dammit! Get away, away, away!

 

Dipper moves to follow him without thinking, and hisses sharply at the stark early light that momentarily blinds him. He tosses his head with a gasp, clenching his eyes shut and sprinting lightly after the younger boy, gaining quickly as his vision clears, hurdling over logs and thorns that Norman has no choice but to stumble through and trip over. 

 

Norman’s pale eyes widen with horror as he realizes there is no getting through the net of brambles strung between the firs before him. The woods around him are empty, too silent, and the trees lean in on him with crooked claws primed for the kill. 

 

Norman is quick, darting into the tangled undergrowth, but Dipper is quicker. He pulls himself upon one of the lower tree branches, padding like a cat along the limb only to vault onto the next, higher, handhold, passing easily over the tangled undergrowth that slows the other boy’s flight.

 

In a panic, Norman gasps for breath, not yet recovered from his sprinting, and stumbles back to the other side of the clearing in an attempt to find a way out. There is a gap in the thick mat of prickers and ferns that keeps the glen so secluded, and Norman takes advantage of it.

 

He is much too tall to properly crawl through, and thorns catch on his long legs and in his hair, pulling relentlessly at his ears and savagely scratching his face. Despite this, Norman wriggles through, rolling to his feet and picking up a low-energy, loping pace. 

 

There is a sound, barely a breath, like paper rubbing together in a vain attempt to form words. Hyperaware of his surroundings, Norman freezes where he stands, eyes wide and fearful at who- or  _ what-  _ could be nearby.

 

A tree branch nearby creaks, a near-imperceptible sound among the rustling of the forest, but Norman is panicked enough for it to stand out, impossibly loud, to his ears. Slowly, he turns around.

 

Dipper has draped himself across the branch, back against the trunk and legs crossed neatly before him. His hands lie palm-down on the rough, mossy bark of the fir, open with fingers curled slightly against the gritty surface. His expression is creased with worry, strong brows pulled downwards and close together, a frown tugging at his fair lips and fey brown eyes gleaming with something unidentifiable. 

 

He is gorgeous, and Norman hates him for it. The concern on his face looks so genuine, framed by tousled brown hair filled with pine needles and other organic debris like some kind of fucking forest faerie. He looks like he might actually care.

 

The vitriol of betrayal that bitters Norman’s mouth fades almost as soon as Dipper drops lithely down from the branch, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

 

“Hi,” He says, voice halting and laced with hesitation that is almost convincing. “Uh, I know this is- just-” He sighs, reaching up and pinching the freckled bridge of his nose in frustration. “Just hear me out, Norm-”

 

What the fuck kind of idiot does Dipper think he is? “No!” Norman cries lamely, “You- you’re one of those  _ things _ !” He runs his hands through his hair, eyes flitting wildly about the forest floor till they rest upon a relatively smooth, long stick amid the foliage. Norman moves shakily to grab it, brandishing the sharper end at his former friend. “You killed her, didn’t you?”

 

Dipper’s loosely concerned expression goes slack for just an instant, dark eyes seeming to look very far away as he shudders once, twice, and brings his arms to wrap around himself. He gasps softly, the pink tip of his tongue flitting out to retrieve the slick bubbles of saliva that escape from the corners of his mouth. 

 

His chocolate eyes do something very, very wrong, pupils contracting smaller and smaller, being distorted by little working muscles that people shouldn’t have till they’re cattish slits peering at Norman. When he looks closer he can see the pigment lining his stroma ripple, a sickening sight. Once he blinks, Dipper’s eyes are  _ red _ . They’re not the washed-out, fleshy rose of albino coloration, but stark, gleaming crimson. 

 

Norman thinks, helplessly, of strawberry syrup, balloons, ratty maroon sneakers. Images push their unbidden way to the forefront of his brain: plush lips, polished nails and marbled bowling balls.

  
  


“I’m not an idiot,” says Norman. He hopes his voice sounds more confident than he feels. “You’re not telling the truth.” He licks his dry lips, eyes darting to the older man’s trembling hands, clenched into fists at his sides. “You’re lying to me.”

 

Dipper’s voice slips out softly; “It was an accident, Norm.” He peers sadly down at the medium. There’s mourning in those eyes. “I didn’t mean it,” was the hoarse whisper.

 

Norman can’t look away. He can’t. His gaze is solidly pinned to Dipper’s, feeling his inhibitions being drunk up by a sea of faintly glowing red, spotted with flecks of amber and mahogany. Norman’s head feels fuzzy. 

 

He wants to run away, he really does, but his traitorous limbs refuse to obey him. They bring him sharply down to his knees, like a puppet whose strings have been cut and left to crumple. His vision whirls, head suddenly stuffed with cotton that keeps him from seeing and muffles all sound. Red and yellow stars dance wildly behind his eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Everything goes dark.

  
  



End file.
